What This Nicht Is Long
by Rhanon Brodie
Summary: "Now draws near the wind's blasts and harsh weather." Daryl / Michonne future fic. Rated T because of a swear word or two.


**_A/N: Sometimes, when we set the time to write, we try to work on existing pieces. Other times, we are inspired by a thought, a picture, or, in this case, the long nights of winter that are ahead. This is the result._**

**_Title and summary come from a 13th Century Hymn 'Miri It Is.'_**

**_All recognizable elements herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine._**

* * *

The days were short, and darkened with the low winter sun. Some time ago, they'd pushed north, putting their faith in freezing winds and immeasurable snow to stop the dead from following. They'd reached a point where they couldn't push on, not just because the mountains were gray and ominous and impossible to traverse this deep into winter. They needed to lay low, to have stability for the months to come, and he needed to hunt, and gather wood, and worry. It was an endless, gut gnawing worry that ate at him when he was alone in the woods and knee deep in snow while he squinted at prints that promised elk and a less than lean season. It clawed at the corners of his thoughts as he perched behind Carl, the two of them on watch when the sky was black and brittle with bright stars. It consumed him as he levied his meal portion to his right, where his woman sat, tired, and heavy, but still managing to glow brighter than the hearth in the great room.

"Any day now," Beth had reassured them after slipping into their bedroom to take note of both their health. The farmer's daughter wasn't just concerned with the woman that was her charge, but for the woman's man, and his gaunt cheeks, and the grey that darkened the hollows carved below his keen, watchful eye. She knew he was worried, and so she set him out to gather more wood to stoke the stove in the kitchen and make sure that the tiny room just off of it would stay warm in the days that would follow.

"Any day" became _that _day, at dawn, in the thin golden light that would last but hours. The shortest day, he reckoned, and the darkest. After this, the days would get longer, but it didn't help ease his anxiety. The dampness of sheets had woken him from a sentient sleep, and that first hiss of breath over her lips set him on high alert. He'd woken Beth, much to her chagrin, and she insisted that it could be hours before anything happened. Easy for her to say, having done this half a dozen times in the last few years. He'd never done this before, and that was enough for him to let the worry wholly take over.

He'd never been one to worry, not the way he was now. Every grunt of pain from her lips twisted his guts; every _whoosh_ of breath, hissed curse, and soft, relieved sigh, made him worry his thumbnail harder and harder until he thought he might wear his thumb right down to the bone. _She_ might have been able to get through this, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to. She told him it was bearable; he knew it to be unbelievable.

He'd seen a lot of pain over the years, suffering, loss, death, but this was always the one that made him reel the most. He stood anxiously at the foot of the cot, shifting his weight, agitated that he couldn't _do_ something for her. He'd always had her back, and she told him that he'd still have it, just by being there, but _hell_… her eyes were so faraway and focused as her body prepared for another match with what he could only imagine was agony. He doubted she even realized he was there. He never moved, not once, only stepped aside when asked, and he watched vigilantly, for hours, as the pain intensified, and the relief between grew shorter and came less frequently.

It was dark now, well past what was once known as midnight, and Beth had ordered oil lamps to be lit and brought in to the small bedroom off the kitchen. Water was set to boil on the wood stove and blankets were piled in the warmer next to the flames. "It won't be long," she'd warned him, nodding to where his dark-skinned woman lay.

A soft, knowing smile curved on the woman's pitch features then, and her ebony eyes looked up with soft, beautiful acceptance. She nodded once, and looked to Beth. "I'm ready. It's okay, I'm ready. Not like I have a choice, right?"

Beth laughed in her good-natured way, but her eyes were solemn, concentrated on her task, and she moved around, arranging Michonne so she was more comfortable. "You'll know when," she instructed. "Just listen to your body. It's never steered you wrong before."

Michonne looked up into his bright, denim blue eyes that watched her. "Wouldn't be so sure about that," she grunted.

If he could have laughed, he would have. Just like her to keep her sharp wit about her, even through this. But, he couldn't answer. His gaze shifted and was transfixed to the epicenter of her pain, watching with horrific fascination and awe as the woman's body adapted, and conformed, and did what it somehow knew how to do.

She was silent through the whole thing. He'd heard screaming and crying, swearing, and high, piercing wails in the past, but he'd never known silence at this moment. He supposed that Michonne would be the one to be strong and silent through this, as she was through everything else. There was nothing but breath, and time, and the twisting of his guts as she struggled to bring forth the one thing she had never thought possible and he hadn't dared to hope for.

All at once, he thought it took hours, and yet mere seconds, and then – _oh and then_… He'd never been one to worry, but the silence that suddenly stretched out into unfathomable lengths as the shadows on the wall grew still made his mouth go dry.

A shrill cry broke through.

He'd never been one to cry, either, save for a handful of times, but this topped all of those. These were tears of joy. These were tears of hope. He didn't know where to look, or what to do, and stared, hands hanging helplessly as Beth laid the small, slimy, squirming bundle of caramel skin and dark hair on Michonne's chest and turned to him with a broad smile.

"Congratulations, Daryl," she beamed. "It's a girl."

* * *

**_I think the general consensus is that Michonne is unable to have children? At any rate, I took a cue from incog_ninja and einfach_mich, and the notion that if Daryl and Michonne DID procreate, they would make indestructible babies._**

**_Thanks for loving this as much as you do, MJ._**


End file.
